Poem of the Day: Summer Magic
Thinking about my sequel to Wake-Robin Ridge has me remembering how much I loved the idea of a little ten-year old boy who grew up camping in the mountains with his dad, every summer. The first part of my chapbook, Summer Magic, is called Mac At Ten, and celebrates those years of innocent childhood, as he learned to love those mountains with all his heart. Here’s one of those poems.
Crawling quietly from his tent,
His dad still lost in slumber within,
He sits down alone on the granite slab,
Coltish legs drawn up to his chin,
And arms wrapped around skinny knees.
He gazes toward the pale horizon,
Watching the sleeping valley below.
With breath held in anticipation,
He waits for the magic
He knows will come.
There! A thin curve of molten red!
A far away sliver of fiery light
Breaks the horizon.
It bathes the tops of the rolling hills
In a brilliant spill of gold.
Gives way to butter yellow
In front of his wide, blue eyes,
The world awakens.
Magic arrives and
Day is born,
He smiles to himself and wraps
His arms more tightly
Around his knees,
Shivering in private delight, and
Holding the beauty
Having already learned
Some magic is
– Marcia Meara –